Cranial Fracking

Recap

Keeping a dream journal is also said to promote better recall and to train people to identify signs that indicate they are dreaming—chatting with the deceased, floating cars, talking skeletons.

—The New York Times

I’ll have a Rudy’s Special, No. 3, the talking skeleton said to the man behind the deli counter. Then he turned to me. Can you believe those Mets? the talking skeleton asked. Have you ever seen such a pathetic choke in your entire life? The talking skeleton’s teeth made a kind of clacking sound as he talked, and his nose holes had some not-yet-decomposed cartilage hanging from them, and a single ant was walking around the inside of one of his eye sockets, counterclockwise.

Normally, I’m a bit shy about talking to people, much less to skeletons fresh from the grave, so I just nodded in agreement. But then I couldn’t help adding, Don’t blame Willie Randolph, though! (I’ve always liked Willie, since back before he was the Mets’ manager, when he was a kid playing for the Yankees.)

The talking skeleton jumped on my remark like it was a slow roller to third. Absolutely not! the talking skeleton said, with some heat. "No way is that fold-o Willie’s fault! But you know who I do blame?" He leaned his talking-skeleton head—his skull, technically—close to me.

Talking skeletons always look cheerful, with that grinning skull-mouth they have, but don’t let that fool you—they can get really mad. Rickey Henderson! the talking skeleton almost yelled, clackingly. I blame Rickey Henderson! Then the skeleton went on about what a dumb idea it was for the Mets to hire Henderson as a base-running coach, especially after the incident back in ’99, when he played cards in the clubhouse, and so on.

At this point, I was starting to wonder how a talking skeleton was going to eat a Rudy’s Special, No. 3, anyway. It’s delicious, but it’s like a chicken parmesan patty on a roll, with melted cheese and sauce on top. I could imagine long ropes of melted cheese getting stuck on the talking skeleton’s many sharp surfaces and creating quite a mess. But, hey, he wants a No. 3, that’s his business.

Now the talking skeleton was leaving. At the door, he turned and intoned, skeleton-like, It was the worst collapse in the entire history of organized baseball! Then he clattered out.

Quite honestly, I had begun to think I was dreaming.

Somehow, I didn’t feel hungry enough for a No. 3, so I just ordered a liverwurst on rye with lettuce and mustard, and a Diet Coke. Just then, my cell phone started vibrating in my pocket. I took it out and saw that the call was from Jawaharlal Nehru, the late prime minister of India, calling from Mumbai. Better take that call.

Jawaharlal, buddy, I said, fumbling for the bills to pay for my sandwich. How goes it? Did you see the game?

Just then, the talking skeleton came back in. Is that Nehru? he asked. Let me talk to him when you’re done.

I nodded my head and held up one finger, indicating that he could have the phone in a minute.

… most certainly did see the game, Nehru was saying. I watched all but the ninth inning on the small-screen TV in my invisible floating limousine. Nehru, in case you’ve forgotten, was elected president of the Indian National Congress six times, and became India’s prime minister in 1947, helping the country through its difficult early years of independence while scouting for the old Milwaukee Braves. He proceeded to give me, and then the talking skeleton, an earful about the failures of the Mets’ front office, coming down particularly hard on the assistant general manager, Tony Bernazard, whom he accused of undercutting Willie every chance he (Bernazard) got.

A vague sense of disquiet began to steal over me. What, I wondered, could the Mets have done differently last season? And why was I wearing only underpants? True, the weather had been unusually warm for October, and anyone as upset as I had been about the Mets’ catastrophic disgrace could hardly be expected to pay much attention to clothes. Still, I wished that I had thought to bring a robe or a towel along, and that Lastings Milledge had run out one or two more ground balls. To add to that, the entire delicatessen and all the people in it had begun to plummet through space at an alarming rate, going down in a giant vortex-whirlpool thing that was kind of a dark green at the outer edges and became a blinding white the closer you got to the center, making it even harder to concentrate.

The answer, I think, is training. Each of us has a job to do. The Mets have to go back to good, hard, solid, fundamental baseball and focus on doing the little things right. That means not trying to steal third with two men out, Mr. José Reyes! And, as for me, I have got to start being more conscientious about my dream journal. I’ve been letting that slide, I admit. With a little discipline and training and the help of my journal, I’ll be able to recognize the important signs. Talking skeleton equals dream. Chatting with the dead: dream. Floating cars (or any other normally earthbound vehicle): dream. Mets losing first place to the Phillies on the last day of the season: reality. Once I hone those reactions until they’re second nature so that I don’t even have to think about them, I’ll be better off.

By the Foot

I feel sorry for people who still think of their places in terms of square feet. My partner, Scott, and I recently purchased Wyoming, which we are in the process of having renovated, and, yes, I do know the square footage (something like two trillion seven hundred and thirty billion square feet, give or take). But that’s just not a very practical type of measurement when we’re dealing with all the plumbers and contractors and security staff and reporters and other non-wealthy service personnel we have to give instructions to. Nowadays, everybody involved in redoing substantial properties like ours uses Global Transverse Mercator Units (GTMUs), which you get off a satellite feed. GTMUs, we’ve found, are much more accurate for detail work like wainscoting, and are able to deal with vast alkali flats and so on, too.

Basically, we are looking at this purchase as a teardown. There’s really not a lot here you’d want to keep, except one or two of the Wind River Mountains and some old 1920s Park Service structures in Yellowstone. Scott and I bought for the location—it’s convenient to anywhere, really, if you think about it—and for the simplicity of line. We wanted someplace rectangular, a much easier configuration from a design point of view, and we won’t have to fuss with panhandles and changeable riverine property lines where we’re going to get into disputes with the landowner next door. Spare us the headaches, please! We’ve had plenty already, with the former occupants (thank heavens they’re gone) and all the junk they left behind—the old broken-down pickup trucks, houses, eyesore water towers, uranium mines, the University of Wyoming, Yellowtail Dam, Casper. I’m a thrower-outer. I believe we must first clear everything away, then see what we’ve got. Scott is more sentimental. He thinks we should leave the North Platte River, for example, and work around it. I haven’t said yes or no. I’m secretly hoping he changes his mind.

In fact, I get a little crazy when I think about it. I should block this question from my consciousness entirely. The North Platte River is the most ridiculous … It’s literally a mile wide and an inch deep. That’s literally true. There are these small trickles of water running here and there, kind of a brownish sand stretching in all directions, a few cow footprints, weird little bushes, a rusty car axle sticking up out of the brownish sand. Why would you ever want to hang on to something like that?

I know that he’s not really serious. I know this is just a ploy to get back at me for insisting on separate bathrooms and then taking first pick. For mine, I chose Johnson and Sheridan Counties, and he’s in a silent rage because his bathroom will be a couple of counties that are a short drive down the interstate, that’s all. Nothing, nothing puts a strain on a relationship like redoing a home.

Forgive me if I’ve neglected to introduce myself. My name is on the card that you were given earlier. You’ll note that both my first and last names are blacked out; feel free to use a thick black line when referring to either of them. Scott, of course, is a pseudonym, for personal reasons not disclosed. The so-called Scott and I request that all media coverage refrain from any mention of us in connection with the recently purchased real estate described above. This is a privacy issue and goes to the heart of us not wanting you to know. The electrified double fencing along the border of South Dakota and the other still existing neighbor states makes the intended point as well, we trust.

Will our new digs be costly to heat in the winter and air-condition in the summer? Yes, absolutely. What about problems of sewage and toxic runoff? That will all go to Colorado. Who will handle waste disposal? You, the taxpayer. What about trespassers inadvertently crossing our property lines? Of course, we expect all transcontinental passenger and military flights to detour around our yard and not cut across. That’s just common courtesy. All pilots, I think, should be aware that when they approach certain latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates they are entering a private residence. A little consideration here, please.

I guess there’s not much more you need to know. As I revisit some of my earlier statements having to do with our personality conflicts involving the North Platte River and so on, I want all that taken out. Internal matters of that kind are outside the bounds of what needs to be talked about here. We have really a lot of money—that is the essential point, so let’s stick to just describing that. A lot doesn’t even convey it, because people will think in ordinary terms of a lot, which is misleading. The total (if I even knew it) is like a lot, a lot, a lot, times even a huge amount more than that. It’s almost frustrating not to be able to get this across.

Sometimes I use the living room metaphor. Your living room—and it doesn’t matter who you are, because you could be anybody, except for a handful of people like me—the living room you are most familiar with, in your own house, is (to me) inconceivably small, of course.

All right. Now imagine the people whom I feel sorry for, mentioned previously, stuck in the old square feet paradigm; imagine, further, that I run into them in Davos or somewhere, and they start boring me with talk about their fabulous walk-in closets, the ones that are the size of your living room. Do you see? Isn’t it clear that this would drive me and anyone close to me absolutely insane? When all the closets in our new place will be constructed to provide fly-through access for helicopters or bush aircraft? Can you see how hard it is for me to keep pretending that we’re talking about the same